37. REGRET
VEERANSH:
She falls asleep quietly. Not dramatically. Not restlessly. Just like a child whose body finally gave up after fighting for too long. I stay seated for a while after her breathing evens out. I don't move. I don't touch her.
I just watch, afraid that even the smallest motion might wake her, might pull her back into pain. Her face is softer in sleep. The fear loosens its grip. The constant alertness, like she's always bracing for impact, eases.
And that's when it hits me. Harder than any accusation. Crueler than any scream. She looks peaceful only when she's unconscious. Because when she's awake, I am the danger.
The thought slices through me. I stand up abruptly, my chest tight, like there's something lodged there that won't let me breathe properly.
I grab my jacket and step out of the room without a sound, closing the door behind me carefully, like I'm afraid the guilt might seep back in if I leave it open.
The resort is quiet at night. Snow glows faintly under the soft lights. The air is sharp, biting, clean. It should calm me. It doesn't.
My feet carry me without thought, past the empty lounge, down the stone path, until I reach the poolside. The water is still. Too still. Reflecting the dark sky like a mirror I don't want to look into.
I sit on one of the pool chairs and lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands clenched together so tightly my knuckles whiten. And then it all comes rushing in. Not in order. Not neatly. Just chaos.
Her eyes the night I forced her to sign. The way her hands shook. The way she didn't scream, because screaming had never saved her before.
The basement. God. The dark, damp store room. The echo of her sobs against concrete walls. The way I locked the door and walked away like I was doing nothing more than closing a file.
I swallow hard. I tell myself I did it because I was angry. Because I needed control. Because she disobeyed. Lies.
I did it because I could. Because power had always answered me without consequences. Until her. My jaw tightens as another memory claws its way up.
Her standing outside my room. For more than an hour. In silence. Because I told her once, never come inside unless I call you.
And she obeyed. Even when she was tired. Even when she was scared. Even when she needed help. I drag a hand down my face, fingers trembling now.
What kind of man creates rules like that for someone who has already lived her whole life trapped inside invisible ones? Then comes the phone. The way she held it like it was oxygen. The way she spoke to her mother in broken, desperate words.
The way something inside me snapped, not because she disobeyed, but because she dared to reach for comfort that wasn't me. I remember the sound. The slap.
I stare at my hands as if they don't belong to me. These hands sign contracts worth billions. These hands build empires. These hands struck a girl who already knew too much pain.
My breath turns uneven. I press my palms against my knees, grounding myself, but it doesn't help. The guilt isn't quiet. It's loud. Relentless.
It asks questions I don't have answers to. What kind of man blackmails someone with her mother's life? What kind of husband cages his wife? What kind of human being watches someone starve emotionally and physically, and calls it discipline?
I laugh once. A short, broken sound. I never wanted a partner. Never wanted feelings. I thought emotions made people weak. So why does this feel like punishment?
The cold air burns my lungs as I inhale deeply. I remember her voice today. Soft. Hesitant. Still apologizing for existing. "Am I causing trouble for you?"
The memory makes something in my chest crack. She has never once asked me why I did any of it. She accepted it. Like she accepted hunger.
Like she accepted silence. Like she accepted pain as a fact of life. That's what terrifies me. Not her fear. Her normalization of it.
I stand up and pace near the pool, boots scraping softly against stone. I tell myself I did what I had to do. That the marriage was necessary. That the property, the empire, the control, it all mattered.
But standing here, under a sky so wide it makes me feel small, none of that sounds convincing anymore. I got what I wanted. The empire. The inheritance. The power.
And what did she get? A life where fear just changed its address. I grip the railing beside the pool, knuckles aching.
For the first time in years, no, ever, I wish I could go back. Not to change a deal. Not to renegotiate terms. But to stop myself.
To stop the man I was before he crossed lines that can't be erased. I don't know when I sink into the chair again. Time blurs.
The water ripples slightly as snowflakes fall into it, one by one, disappearing the moment they touch the surface. Like apologies that come too late.
I don't cry. I don't break down. But something inside me shifts, unsettles, refuses to sit comfortably where it always has. I've always lived by one rule. Regret is a waste of time.
Tonight, it wraps around me like a vice. And the worst part? I deserve every second of it. I don't know how long I stand there.
The pool water reflects the lights above, trembling slightly with the wind. My thoughts are louder than the night, heavier than the guilt I keep trying, and failing, to suppress.
Then I hear it. Footsteps. Fast. Uneven. Almost stumbling. Before I can turn fully, something collides with my chest.
Arms wrap around me suddenly, tight, too tight, like if she loosens her grip, I'll disappear. Aarohi. Her body is shaking violently. Her face is pressed into my chest, and within seconds I feel it, warm tears soaking through my shirt.
For a split second, my mind blanks. "What," I start, instinctively gripping her shoulders to pull her back and see her face. "Aarohi, what happened? Are you?"
She doesn't answer. She only cries harder. Not soft tears. Not silent ones. This is panic. Raw. Uncontrolled. Like her body has forgotten how to breathe.
I look around instinctively, my heart hammering now. Did someone scare her? Did something happen in the room? A thousand worst case scenarios flash through my mind in the space of a heartbeat.
"Aarohi," I say again, sharper now, trying to ground her. "Look at me. Talk to me." She doesn't. Her breathing turns erratic, shallow gasps tearing out of her chest.
Her fingers clutch the back of my jacket like it's the only thing keeping her upright. Panic attack. The realization hits immediately.
I curse under my breath and pull her closer instead of pushing her away. One arm wraps around her back firmly, anchoring her, while my other hand comes up to rub slow, steady circles between her shoulder blades.
"It's okay," I say, forcing my voice to stay calm even though my own pulse is racing. "You're safe. I'm here." She shakes her head weakly against my chest, unable to form words yet.
"Breathe," I murmur, lowering my head slightly so my voice reaches her ear. "Slowly. With me." I exaggerate my breathing so she can feel it, deep inhale, slow exhale, over and over again.
Her sobs hitch painfully. I feel every tremor in her body, every sharp breath like it's cutting into me instead. This is my fault.
If I hadn't left. If I hadn't walked out without telling her. If I hadn't made silence and abandonment such familiar monsters in her life.
Her grip tightens suddenly, nails digging into my back. "I," she tries, voice breaking completely. "I woke up." Her words dissolve into another sob.
I tighten my hold instinctively, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head, pressing her gently into my chest. "Easy," I whisper. "You don't have to rush. I'm listening."
She forces herself to breathe again, shaky and uneven. "I woke alone," she says finally, every word coming out hesitant and broken. "Room was dark. You were not there."
My chest tightens. "I called," she continues softly, like admitting something shameful. "You didn't answer. I thought." She trails off, unable to finish the thought, but I know exactly what it was.
Left. Everyone leaves. "I got scared," she whispers, voice trembling. "I thought something happened to you." Something inside me fractures.
I close my eyes briefly, resting my forehead against her hair. "I'm sorry," I say quietly. Not sharply. Not defensively. Just honestly. "I couldn't sleep. I came out for some air."
I pull back just enough to look at her face. Her eyes are red and swollen, lashes clumped with tears. Fear still clings to her expression, like it hasn't realized yet that the danger has passed.
"I shouldn't have left you alone," I add, my voice lower now. "I should've told you." She shakes her head immediately. "No, it's not your fault."
Even now, she's trying to protect me. "I'm just scared of dark places. And empty rooms." Basement. The word screams in my head. I don't let myself flinch.
"Hey," I say gently, lifting her chin just a fraction so she has to look at me. "You're not alone. Not here." Her breathing slowly begins to steady, though her hands still cling to me.
I keep rubbing her back, slow and rhythmic, until her shoulders stop shaking. When she finally calms, exhaustion crashes into her all at once. I feel it in the way her weight sags against me.
"Let's go back inside," I murmur. "It's cold." She nods faintly. I don't let go of her as we walk. I guide her gently, one arm secure around her shoulders, adjusting my pace to hers.
Back in the room, the lights are dim but warm. Familiar. She hesitates at the doorway, like she's afraid I'll disappear again if she looks away.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say quietly, reading the fear on her face too easily now. She finally steps inside. I guide her to the bed and help her sit.
She looks small again, vulnerable, wrapped in my jacket that I didn't even realize I'd placed around her shoulders. "Lie down," I say softly.
She obeys, curling slightly under the blanket. I hesitate for only a second before sitting beside her, then lying down too, careful not to crowd her, but close enough that she can feel my presence.
She turns instinctively, her hand finding the sleeve of my shirt, gripping it lightly. I don't pull away. "I'm here," I repeat quietly, more to myself than to her. "Sleep."
Her eyes flutter closed slowly this time, not from exhaustion alone, but from trust. And that terrifies me more than anything. Because trust is fragile. And I've already broken it once.
As her breathing evens out again, her grip loosens but doesn't disappear entirely. I stare at the ceiling, wide awake, heart heavy.
I don't deserve this closeness. I don't deserve her trust.
But tonight, I'll protect it anyway.